


Exhaustion

by SaltCore



Series: Tumblr Rewrites [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Doting yet Bossy Hanzo, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Jesse Whump, Sleep Deprived Jesse, min hurt/max comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 07:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19866022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: Jesse comes back dead on his feet. Hanzo takes care of him.





	Exhaustion

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of a prompt fill from tumblr I did ages ago. So kinda new and kinda not.

Jesse’s right thumb slips off the wheel of his lighter, and the flame vanishes, leaving his cigar unlit. Jesse bites down hard on the end of the cigar and shakes his hand, but that does nothing to chase the fine tremors away. Somewhere between the seventy-two hours awake and the stims finally metabolizing out of his system, he picked up the shakes. His head feels both empty and full of mud, and if he didn’t know better he’d swear his skin was on wrong. But Jesse could deal with all that if he could just get this damn cigar lit.

His clumsy fingers betray him again, and the lighter falls to the ground with a small clatter. He stares at it, the weak sunlight glinting off the battered metal surface, hand still by his face. He feels a sudden hysterical urge to shout and kick it into the ocean, but the desire for nicotine wins out. His joints pop in protest as he bends down to retrieve it from the faded pavement.

That proves too close to horizontal to avoid tempting thoughts. He could lay down right here. Might even get to sleep a few minutes before someone tripped over him. The pavement looks downright comfortable up close, and he’s slept on worse.

Jesse shakes his head and straightens back up with a thunderous sigh. He’s still got too much to do before he can sleep. But first, he’s lighting this damn cigar.

He’s just as keyed up as he is exhausted, hindbrain still alert for danger even on the Watchpoint tarmac, so when someone touches his arm he reacts—spins with his left hand pulled back for a cross. He realizes it’s only Hanzo in time to stop himself. Hanzo is leaning away from him, both hands up and flat footed, like he’d just jumped back. Startled perhaps. And maybe just a little worried. Jesse lets his arms drop and dangle by his sides, cigar still unlit.

“You don’t look well,” Hanzo says evenly, relaxing his stance. His eyes roam over Jesse and his eyebrows slowly knit together.

Jesse huffs. Can’t think of anything clever to say. Hanzo’s lips thin and he steps back into Jesse’s space, slowly reaching out and taking his hand. He pulls the lighter free of Jesse’s fingers and reaches up toward the cigar. The lighter comes to life on his first try, and Jesse leans forward to finally light the cigar. It helps, but not nearly enough. Jesse still feels hunted.

His hand is still in Hanzo’s, and Hanzo tugs him forward, toward the Watchpoint proper. Jesse lets Hanzo lead him, barely even watches where he’s going. His footfalls sound like gunshots to his own ears—loud, damningly loud, even a child could find him—but he can’t find the strength to step more carefully. He bumps into Hanzo when he stops, and only then realizes that Hanzo lead him to his own room.

Hanzo pulls him inside. It’s the same as he left it, but the mess he’d been ignoring now grates. He puts out the remains of his cigar in the nearest ashtray, then Hanzo tugs him toward his bed like Jesse wasn’t already collapsing that way. Once seated, he slumps forward, his face pressing into Hanzo’s middle. His shirt is soft and smells faintly of the industrial detergent they all use. It feels like home probably would, if he had one.

“Jus’. Jus’ gimme a minute.”

Hanzo hums an assent, lifts Jesse’s hat away, and starts carding his fingers through Jesse’s hair, careful of tangles. There is so much Jesse should be doing—sit for the debriefing, write the report, clean his gear—but he doesn’t think he could even get back to his feet under his own power, let alone tackle anything else. 

“Let’s get you undressed so you can sleep,” Hanzo murmurs.

“Still gotta—” but Hanzo pulls back and silences him with a finger pressed lightly against his lips.

“When was the last time you slept?”

Jesse shrugs. He’d been up for almost a full day before he’d gotten marked, and he couldn’t stop and risk being caught in the two days it took to wind his way to the emergency rendezvous. He’d only been catching an hour or two at a time for the better part of a week before that. Hanzo frowns.

“Everything else  _ will _ wait for you to rest,” Hanzo says in a tone that declares the discussion over. Before Jesse can even begin to make a protest, Hanzo kneels down and pulls his boots off, one at a time, then goes to work on his belt. Jesse tries to work the catches of his armor, but Hanzo bats his hands away and undoes that as well. Jesse gives up then, lets Hanzo strip him to just his undershirt and boxers. Jesse slumps back, manages to pull his legs up, and throws an arm over his eyes.

The moment his eyes are closed, his mind starts racing, replaying the last few days in vivid detail while counting up all the things that will have to be done. Distantly, he hears the click of the lightswitch, but the room doesn’t darken much with daylight still coming in through the window. The bed dips, probably from Hanzo sitting down, and tips Jesse infinitesimally toward the floor. There is still so much to do, even more after a botched mission than a successful one. And it’s just piling up while Jesse lies here.

The pressure of Hanzo’s fingers on his forehead brings his thoughts to an abrupt halt. Hanzo brushes aside his bangs, then goes back to carding through his hair. Jesse lowers his arm. Sees Hanzo staring down at him with a look he could almost call soft.

“I can hear you thinking.” Hanzo punctuates this statement by tapping the bridge of Jesse’s nose. “Roll over.”

Jesse does it. At least mashing his face into the pillow blocks more of the light. Hanzo moves, sending the mattress dipping and rolling, arranging himself so he’s fully on the bed between Jesse and the door. Hanzo’s hands reappear in Jesse’s hair, heavy but gentle, sometimes drifting down to trace a line down Jesse’s spine. It shouldn’t feel and good as it does, shouldn’t make him feel as safe as it does, but before he realizes it’s happening the tension spools out of him, leaving him boneless.

“I’ve got you, Jesse. Just rest,” Hanzo whispers.

And, just like that, Jesse does.


End file.
